


Karaoke Curiosities

by regala_electra



Series: Fabulous and the City [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regala_electra/pseuds/regala_electra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You can have all the pussy in the world,” Blaine tells her sincerely, clasping her hands tight because he <b>adores</b> Santana and wants the very best for her. “So long as I can have Kurt’s dick.”</i> Wherein Rachel Berry has exciting news, Blaine’s music choices remain questionable but his ardent love of Kurt's dynamic personality continues to endure, Kurt attempts to avoid the madness of Blaine and Santana’s friendship, and Santana has the most awesome blog you’re probably not reading. Oh yeah, and Blaine and Santana fondly reminisce on their fierce high school duet. Plus Kurt and Blaine totally do it. (Then they duet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karaoke Curiosities

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Fleet Week Follies and set shortly thereafter. Major thanks to those who indulged me rambling about this story and special thanks to Kerry for audiencing and to Memphis for pointing out that I did not mean "sexcapes" although that is indeed a sexy form of escape.

She tells Blaine this college thing is so easy she might as well pull a Franco and sleep through her classes next semester.

“Really,” Blaine says, moving his phone to his other ear. He’s waiting in line at the lunch counter, precious time slipping away as the most indecisive woman on the planet takes forever to select her salad mix-in options. “Are you unhappy in California?”

“Shut up, Blaine,” she says and he can hear the faint sound of typing, an irritated huff of breath before she continues. “Look, I’m bored, okay? It’s summer and everyone’s fucked off to see their families or everyone’s somebody’s ex here. There is so much drama than even I’m like _tired_ of it and you know next to my vibrator, nothing gets me off like drama.”

“And I’m glad to know that,” Blaine says politely, though he quite emphatically isn’t. He deeply regrets that time he got a little (lot) drunk and delved into the tenuous subject of sex toys. In his defense, he had been confused and sought clarification and why not go to someone who labeled herself as an expert? While Santana had given him a fairly reliable crash course, he regrets knowing so much about her own personal preferences.

“Beverly got all clingy last week,” Santana adds. “So I dumped her. Got insane traffic on my _How to Dump Your Girlfriend and Have Awesome Breakup Sex_ post.”

“How is the blog doing?” Blaine asks desperate to change the subject after quickly giving out his salad order once it’s his turn and simultaneously apologizing for being on his cell phone. Santana mocks him for being so _proper_.

“I get so many emails begging for more stories about you and Kurt. I’m depriving my readership. Anything juicy you want to share with Auntie ‘Tana?”

“Santana,” Blaine hisses, shocked. “I’m in public. And _no_.”

“Please we were at a party when you told me about the first time Kurt fingered you. I can’t remember, what was it you said? ‘ _Santana, I almost kicked him in the head ‘cause it felt so good_.’ You’re such a sex fiend.”

“That’s different,” Blaine huffs. “And I’m not _that_. I’m in a committed relationship. Kurt and I care deeply about each other.”

“Balls deep, I bet,” she says. “I bet you’re secretly into really kinky stuff and don’t even know half the _words_ for what you want to do to Kurt. Or vice your versa. Switch it up and shit.”

Blaine’s paid for his food and is out the door when he stupidly says, “Kurt’s kinkier than me.”

“ _Really_ ,” Santana says and Blaine regrets the week long separation from Kurt. If Kurt were here, he’d remind Blaine to stop being so eager to confide in Santana because once he lets something slip, she will not stop until she gets every nitty gritty detail.

“I have to go back to work,” Blaine says a little loudly, hysterically wondering if he can pretend there’s shitty cell phone service in the elevator. (There isn’t.)

“That’s okay, “ Santana says and he knows how wide her smile must be for her to sound so pleasant. The Cheshire Cat’s got nothing on her. “I needed to make a call about summer plans. See you later, bitch.”

It isn’t until Blaine’s halfway through his salad that he realizes she said _see_ instead of _call_.

 

*

 

The subway ride home is an exercise in infinite patience and Blaine’s fraying at the edges by the time he’s on the street, breathing in hot air. At least it’s not as bad being in a subway car with no air-conditioning. Like he experienced, oh, five whole minutes ago.

He climbs every step in his apartment building dreaming of the air-conditioning that awaits him. Rachel’s already assured him via text that it’s cranking.

As soon as he’s inside he faceplants to the floor. After a moment, he thanks Rachel for tossing a pillow to soften his fall because he’s not entirely sure he would’ve had the foresight to keep from breaking his nose against the hardwood flooring.

He’s fond of not having a broken nose and would like to keep it that way.

Soon enough, he starts feeling like a person again, smiling when Rachel nudges at his side with her bare foot.

“Still alive?”

“Barely,” he answers because he’s too tired to bitch about the bizarre moments during his commute. They all have their own amazing subway stories to share since moving to New York. He’ll save it for another time when it doesn’t make his skin itch and leave him wanting to be very unkind and judgmental.

“Go take a shower,” Rachel says in that non-filtered way of hers.

“Do I smell that bad?”

“Come on,” she says, insisting, bending down to tickle at his sides. She forces him to rise on wearied feet through sheer force of will. They spend the rest of the night satisfying Rachel’s whims. She pulls out a bottle of nail polish and threatens him with a pedicure after he flubs a line while they work on her audition piece.

Rachel makes him go with her to her singers’ collective later that night when she declares he’s ruining the apartment by moping.

“Did you let me waste away when I was having difficulty adjusting to my life here? Without F—when things became difficult? No, you and Kurt made sure to ply me with society and _culture_. I’m doing the same to you for your own good. Or I’m telling Kurt.”

That last threat is the best in her arsenal—it’s pathetic to pine after less than a week and yes, Kurt would totally not respect him as much if he knew about it. Blaine dresses to the nines and puts on his favorite wingtips he wears only for the most special of occasions, offering her arm as they brave another summer rainstorm to venture into the heart of Queens.

He’s introduced to a colorful whirligig of people with unusual names he tries his best to remember. By the time they wind up at a seedy hookah bar, the names have vanished much like their better senses. Rachel protests that it’ll ruin her voice but she’s keeping up with the rest of them. Once she’s mastered breathing out the smoke, she criticizes everyone on their technique, insisting she knows better.

Blaine learns he becomes indecently cuddly after trying the double apple flavor several times (to really appreciate the taste, he claims). He doesn’t understand what they mean by double apple and he asks if there’s single or triple apple too. It’s pleasant enough and his heart is a lighter weight in his chest.

Rachel orders appletinis when the waiter doesn’t I.D. them and they try to finish the drinks off despite tasting sickeningly sweet. He’s moved onto mint hookah and he’s now assured of one thing: everyone is spectacular and fascinating.

Also, if he could feel like this forever, that would be awesome.

Rachel keeps a close watch on him, her arms tight as she clutches him from behind as if he’s liable to run off and she’s been tasked with Blaine Watch Duty. They’re seated against the enormous cushions. It’s like they’ve suddenly become very small and now they’re stranded on a giant banquette.

He lolls his head back to rest on her shoulder, saying, pleased as anything, “Hiiiiiii.”

“You look like you want to hug _everyone_ , Blaine.”

“I do,” he says. “I already have. Wait, I don’t think I hugged Whatley.”

“Wheatley, you mean? Oh, Blaine,” she says, tugging his arm. “We better get you home. Someone has _work_ in the morning and I don’t think they’ll like you hung over.”

“But you like me.”

Rachel giggles until she’s almost snorting.

“Everyone likes you. Right?” She says this to the group at large and a cheer rings out. Drinks are raised and everything.

“You guys are awesome,” Blaine enthuses but Rachel prevents him from starting off another round of hugs.

She lets him lean on her during the long ride back, laughing at his random observations, which he thinks are particularly inspired. He sees an older couple get on for a few stops, and it’s not until they take each other’s hands when they depart that he realizes he didn’t _immediately_ notice that they were both men.

“I almost forgot,” he says, but he didn’t, not really.

What happened is this: it was _safe_ and everyday, the background to his own self-absorbed concerns, just like any other couple. He gets quiet after that, counting off the stops in his head until they’re finally back to their apartment, to almost-home.

He falls asleep face-first on Kurt’s side of the bed, pushing his face deeper against the pillow. There’s a scent he catches right before he drifts off. Missing Kurt is unbearable but it’s not like anything’s _lost_.

 

*

 

It’s 6am his time when he answers his phone, Santana’s voice thick and unsteady when she stops breathing in his ear. “Anderson.”

 _Shit_. It’s never good when Santana uses his last name.

“I’m a little out of it,” he apologizes and it takes him a while to realize he’s alone in his bed. He’d instinctively reached out and with nothing but air he fists his hand into the bed sheet.

“Good. So I’ll talk. And you do that listening shit and go _mmm-hmmm_ when I pause and don’t you fucking say you’re sorry.”

“Mmm,” he says and Santana sighs in relief.

“Remember when you transferred to McKinley?”

“Remind me,” he says, breaking the rules but she lets him get away with it. They’re pretty fast and loose about their friendship.

 

*

 

It isn’t like Blaine entered McKinley during his senior year with grand plans of making a stand or forming a real support group for gay students. He’d gone to school because of many reasons that at the time he thought were important. While it’s easy to claim he did it for love, he didn’t get hit with a slushie for love.

He’d gotten slushied for Santana.

She’d finally come out publicly and while she’d been defiant, her artificial persona was showing cracks. Santana could barely walk down the hallways without getting shit and began making up excuses to walk with someone. Her face was brave but Blaine had noticed it wasn’t going to last for long. He’d been there and she might be stronger but there’s only so much a person ought to take.

That slushie hurdling towards her could have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back and Blaine had been nothing but reflex, taking the hit hard.

Santana had chided him when she pulled him into the bathroom, Kurt following after, Mercedes too, the whole glee club might’ve joined in if they were there to witness it. She’d been the one to start viciously wiping him off, pulling his shirt off his body before he’d even registered the cold leaching away leaving a hot burning sting across his skin.

“Why did you do that? You’re not a hero, okay? It’s the same shit, different day.”

“It’s better not to go it alone, right?” he’d said, echoing what she’d said once upon a hallway incident last year.

“You’re a damn idiot.” She’d turned to Kurt and said, “You’re willingly bumping uglies with an idiot.”

Kurt had sputtered and so had Blaine. Santana used the moment to cast a look at Blaine’s chest, cocking an eyebrow, settling her mask back on, and said, “He’s got a decent body, though. Well done, Hummel.”

“Santana,” Blaine had said, trying to stop her from shutting them out, but she’d raised a hand and shook her head. She might have said _don’t_ but it was quiet and she’d slipped out once Kurt and Mercedes took over slushie cleanup.

A day later, as New Directions was issued with a fairly questionable assignment from Mr. Schuester, Santana had initiated contact. Everyone in the club had to sing a duet with someone but not someone they were dating, or had previously dated. This left most of the glee club working out complicated charts on who could sing together, and Blaine didn’t want to know.

Santana pulled him aside and said, “We should duet.”

Of course, Blaine heard it as _do it_ and launched into a lengthy explanation that coming out was difficult and even he found himself questioning his sexuality when he’d found that he liked kissing Rachel quite a bit while drunk. But he and Kurt were soundly in love and he didn’t want Santana to feel like she needed to prove anything or try to prove her orientation with a needless experiment. He finally petered off at Santana’s growing smirk.

“Oh,” he said. “You meant a _duet_. For the assignment.”

“Wow. Kurt really goes for the dumb ones, huh?”

And that’s how it started.

 

*

 

“You sucked at dancing,” she tells him.

“A filthy lie,” he says, because they’re moved past her request for him to offer only supporting noises. The tension she’d had before has drifted away and now they’re fondly reminiscing. “Don’t mock my dance moves, we choreographed that duet together. Santana, you should know you’re my second favorite duet partner.”

“Ooh, that means Kurt or Rachel is competing for the top spot.”

Blaine pauses. “Shit.” Rachel’s going to kill him if she ever learns she’s rounding out the top three.

“You make it too easy for me sometimes.” Santana hums a little, the familiar strain of their duet. “I remember Kurt’s face. It was like I took your virginity right in front of him. Which, sorry, but gross.”

“Thank you.” He’s really fond of the _actual_ way his virginity eroded away until on all counts, he became unable to cling to even the faintest definition of the word. “I still don’t think it was _that_ shocking.”

“Oh honey,” she says. “Denial’s not a pretty color on you.”

 

*

 

This was how it was cemented.

Mr. Schuester had waved off Puck and Tina, who finished _Born to Run_ to a hesitant smattering of applause, directing Blaine and Santana to the front of the room.

“All right, guys, Santana and Blaine are up next.”

“You better bring it like there’s a sex _famine_ ,” she’d whispered as they had their backs to everyone. Her hand brushed against the back of his but pulled away before Blaine did something stupid like grab hold.

“Hope you can keep up with me,” he said in return.

They didn’t do much to alter the song, trading off lines like they were competing in a tennis match between two people out to destroy each other through sheer talent.

Santana worked a mocking tone in her lines. “ _Love in the nineties_ ,” she sang as Blaine came up behind her, locking her in his arms, one hand splayed across her clavicle as he countered with “ _is paranoid_.”

They separated and started the more complex steps as they tackled the chorus together: “ _Looking for girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls who do girls like they’re boys_.” The audience disappeared as Blaine did what he did best—gave it his all.

Santana pulled his hair a little early but he went with it as they harmonized on “ _Always should be someone you really love_.”

They were nailing the choreography, especially a moment that involved Blaine bending over while Santana thrust behind him, grabbing his hips and pulling him against her. She was gripping him hard enough that he nearly stumbled over the next lyric, gathering his wits at the last second.

The silence once they were done was deafening.

 

*

 

In hindsight perhaps their rendition of _Boys and Girls_ was a little risqué.

“Yours was the last real dick that ever got close to my lady business,” Santana offers, like it’s supposed to be comforting.

“Well. I guess I’m flattered?” Blaine bites his lip. “You’re the only girl to put her hand down my pants.”

As far as he remembers. He’s pretty sure during that disastrous party at Rachel’s house that the only touching Rachel did was around his face and his hair, which she claimed marked him as soulful. It’s something he’s still puzzling over.

“Whatever, Blaine. I only grazed your fuck cut muscles. Which, yay for you, I hope you’re keeping that up.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blaine lies, running a hand down his stomach to check. He’s not vain, more, _considerate_ of his appearance. A put together look relies on having a relatively nice physique. And he is fond those times he catches Kurt openly _staring_ at him.

“What was Kurt’s favorite part of our song? Was it when I licked your neck? Or when you pulled me into that slow bend, pressed up real nice and tight? No, wait, it was when I got my hands full of your ass, wasn’t it?”

“So many choices,” Blaine says, wincing a little as he recalls each moment. He takes his time to decide. “I don’t think he liked it when I was kneeling in front of you.”

That’s putting it mildly. Kurt puts it as _remember that time you sang into Santana’s crotch, Blaine?_ Then he shakes his head and mutters about sex riots and _with Santana of all people_. Once Blaine had stupidly asked Kurt if singing the song with Rachel would’ve made it better. He’s very lucky that Kurt gave him the silent treatment for a couple of days as punishment for his obliviousness.

It’s not an argument he’s ever going to win, although he will always claim innocence. Yes, he was kneeling in front of Santana but he had his face turned away to sing to the audience. Specifically to Kurt.

At the time he thought Kurt would like it and that the suggestive nature of the song had romantic appeal. On that count, he was wrong.

“He’s _possessive_ ,” Santana says, nearly purring. “Work that jealously angle. Makes the sex smoking.”

“I think we’re doing all right without it.” He glances over at his alarm clock and nearly swears. “Santana, as lovely as this conversation is, I have to get ready for work.”

“Whatever will I do without you hanging on to my every word?” The sarcasm is meant to cut deep but Blaine’s used to it. “I’ve got a late night booty call so. Later.”

She doesn’t let him say goodbye.

 

*

 

The rest of the week goes by in a blur. He learns not to mope in front of Rachel after she sends incriminating photos of _Blaine “Cuddle Monster” Warbler_ to Kurt. Blaine wisely decides not to ask where else she distributed them. He’s been getting way too many friend requests on Facebook from girls lately.

Pretty soon he’s on a plane and irritated from the long wait to board. He drinks as much Coke as he can until he’s a jittery mess, and plasters on a fake smile when his dad is the one at the airport waiting to pick him up instead of his mom.

He keeps his conversation as frivolous as possible once his grades are dissected and found wanting despite getting a 4.0 GPA for his second semester. His mother gets home late and rescues him from feeling immensely awkward at their house, though he doesn’t ever stop performing for his parents. They aren’t that impressed with his role as Good, Obedient Son (who remains a disappointment) but they give him their version of applause, telling him that he should try to come home for the holidays. Blaine makes half-hearted promises that he will.

Blaine doesn’t think he’s giddy until he winds up at the Hummel-Hudson house and nearly pounces on Kurt. A week and a handful of days is far too long and he doesn’t care that Kurt is epically judging him. Call him a sap, fine, but at least do it with that fond look Kurt can’t help hiding. It’s wonderful, actually, the exasperation of _look at my silly boyfriend_ —and Blaine craves it more than anything.

Well, almost anything.

They don’t have sex in the house because Kurt claims it’ll be too weird and they only manage hasty, mutual handjobs in the car during a date night. They go to Breadstix afterwards, for nostalgia value, where Blaine learns that they’ve both gotten kind of snobby as they can barely eat the inauthentic Italian.

“How long until we’re home?” he asks Kurt one night when they’re hanging out in the background, lying on a blanket spread over the freshly mowed lawn, admiring the stars.

Kurt tenses and he doesn’t answer for a while. Blaine almost forgets he asked a question, enjoying the feel of Kurt’s fingers in his hair. There are beads of sweat on his forehead but Kurt doesn’t seem to mind it, bending down to kiss his brow. Kurt finally says, “One more week until we’re back in New York. It’s going to be a scorcher this summer.”

“Looking forward to taking lots of showers with you.”

Kurt laughs and nuzzles closer to Blaine, hair falling out of its hold and strands sticking against his forehead. “I hope you remember that Rachel has banned us from any actual sex in any of the _common rooms_.”

“Well,” Blaine reasons, “if we stick to fooling around, then it isn’t really sex.”

“Your logic is flawless. Tell that to my dad so he’s fine with us sharing a bed in his house. See how that works out for you.”

“We could sleep under the stars.”

“You’re such a romantic.” Kurt means it like a slight against Blaine’s character but he can hear the curl of content in Kurt’s voice. He pulls Kurt into a kiss and tries his very best to make sure Kurt doesn’t break away until they’re both breathless.

 

*

 

They go back to New York on the same flight and no matter how many jokes Santana texts (and emails) him about joining the mile high club, that doesn’t happen. Membership to that club must be seriously exclusive because Blaine cannot figure out the logistics. He also doesn’t want to have sex in a cramped airplane bathroom. Frankly, that’s kind of gross.

Kurt refuses to deal with subway train travel and wrangling several pieces of luggage through the train transfers, so they take a cab.

Paying the taxi driver is a trial in and of itself, as he tries to scam them by claiming that it’s not the flat fare plus tip. By the time they’re at the apartment front today, they’re ready to shred all clothes and get down to something fairly quick and dirty to slake the growing need between them. Naturally they’re cockblocked from this awesome plan.

Quite literally. Rachel is standing in their way, with her adorable luggage set that Kurt claims is gaudy. Blaine secretly thinks the multicolor polka dots are charming.

She’s beaming.

“I’m so glad I didn’t miss you,” she says, wrapping each of them in a tight, forceful hug and Blaine can feel the nervous energy humming off her skin. “I got a part! In a real play!”

That much is evident and she quickly summarizes the events that lead her to accepting the role and how she’s going upstate for a full month and that she’s going to working with some true veterans of the stage—

“Are they animals?” Kurt holds Rachel’s hands in his own, staring at her very seriously. She stills in his hands and Blaine is suitably impressed by the action, because he’d be jumping up and down even with the physical drain from traveling. He might be bouncing on his heels a little regardless. “You shouldn’t work with animals. Not yet at least, you need experience before they start stealing your scenes.”

“No,” Rachel says with a laugh. “And don’t worry, Santana will be subletting my room while I’m away so the rent will be fine. I really do need to go. I can’t be fashionably late until I’m the lead.”

And with a trilling bye, she’s out the door and Kurt wheels his shock onto Blaine and says, “Did you know about that?”

“Well,” Blaine says, begging his brain to catch up with his mouth because he’s sure he might blurt out _this is wonderful! I’ve missed her_ and that’s definitely the wrong response, “Rachel just told us, so no.”

“Santana didn’t say anything?”

Blaine did get a text this morning about Santana looking forward to some ass-pinching but he figured she mistakenly hit his name while she was sexting.

“Um.”

It’s the best answer he can give Kurt and Kurt does not appreciate it. However Blaine very much appreciates Kurt saying, “Screw Rachel’s roommate rules,” and yanking Blaine close, mouth on his before he gets a chance to process what Kurt means.

Kurt proceeds to strip off Blaine’s jeans and give Blaine the most impressive blowjob of his entire _life_. Blaine has to lean against the sofa to keep his balance and comes spectacularly, almost crashing to the floor afterwards. He’s pretty sure he lost a year of calculus in the orgasm, a fair exchange, because _holy shit_.

Fortunately Kurt catches him before Blaine slides to the ground. His dick is hard against Blaine’s thigh as he rocks against him. Blaine gets hit with an awesome aftershock, frantically palming his softening cock with his hand willing it to calm down with a promise that yes, there will be more, this is only the beginning.

“Where to next?” he says against Kurt’s jaw, teasing his tongue over a sensitive spot.

Blaine really has to commend Kurt for insisting that they spend extra on a fairly sturdy kitchen table. Although he hopes he doesn’t get any bruises on his stomach from the way Kurt fucks into him from behind, hands firm on Blaine’s hips. Kurt’s holding Blaine through it and doesn’t allow him to do anything but take it.

It’s when Kurt’s sucking a near-bruise between his shoulder blades that Blaine knows it’s almost over and he reaches behind blindly, his hand digging into Kurt’s ass as he says (pleads more likely), “Kurt, let go.”

Kurt always stills when he comes, always, his breath hot against Blaine’s skin when he exhales. The business of dealing with the condom is taken care of before Kurt turns Blaine around. A hand around his dick is pretty much the only thing he needs. If he hadn’t come before, being fucked would’ve gotten him off, but it’s nice when it’s like this, languid almost, like a dream.

Somehow they move off the table and Blaine pulls Kurt into a long, slow kiss before they have to stop.

“You’re cleaning up before Santana gets here by the way,” Kurt says later from his comfortable location on the floor. He has a blanket folded beneath him and a sofa pillow tucked under his head.

Blaine’s managed to make it to the sofa, curled up a little in wonderment at all the new places he can feel stinging and liking the ache in a way he’s never really noticed before. Even his lips buzz when he brings his fingertips to his mouth. “Why?”

“She’s your BFF.”

Blaine would try to argue but he’s too fucked out to care. “Okay. Will you help me to bed?”

Kurt sighs. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“We should do that again sometime,” Blaine says. Maybe once he’s regained full mobility. He may have uncovered new muscles that are in desperate need of a workout.

Kurt’s laugh is short but kind of devilishly dark. “I was thinking we could finally christen the bathroom.”

“I love the way you think.”

 

*

 

Kurt is flexible and Blaine fucking loves it.

He says exactly that, panting into Kurt’s ear as he thrusts against his ass. They’re not foolish enough to actually go too far. Water and condoms don’t always mix but that doesn’t mean that he can’t tease, frotting up against Kurt’s ass, fisting Kurt’s dick as the water pours down Kurt’s neck. He licks him there because it makes Kurt go a little crazy, nearly biting down because it’s the purest taste of Kurt’s skin he can get underneath the warm water. Leaving bite marks isn’t going to happen but it’s awe-inspiring that it _could_ , that Kurt might let him.

“Why is the lube so far away,” he whines, pressing his fingers closer and closer until he’s teasing Kurt’s hole.

“Because your plans lack inspiration,” Kurt says but he doesn’t really mean it. At least his hips don’t, seeing as Kurt can’t stop rocking against Blaine’s fingers. “I’m so close, Blaine.”

“I can get you closer.”

“I need it.”

What Kurt means is that he needs Blaine and that’s enough to dare. They’ve not broached the subject of _rimming_ , and he’s not entirely sure how to ask about it without absolutely killing the mood. What he does is suck two fingers in his mouth, laving them with spit. Running water isn’t enough, and when he stops stroking Kurt’s cock, Kurt whines, craning his neck to look at Blaine.

“Why are you stopping?”

Blaine holds the back of Kurt’s thigh, enough of a hint to get Kurt to move his leg so he’s balancing his weight now with one foot over the tub’s edge. “I’m not. Just. Trust me?”

“If I didn’t, I’d do it myself.” There’s a laugh at the edge of Kurt’s voice as well as the obvious signs of sexual frustration, so Blaine doesn’t hesitate anymore. One finger is enough to start and Kurt’s hands nearly slap against the tiled wall as he bends down and his back arches, trying to perfect the angle.

“Do you know what’s best?” Blaine says after he’s got his right hand back where it belongs around Kurt’s dick and he’s playing with just the rim, pretending he’s about to push in deeper and then pulling back and touching everywhere but there, which leaves Kurt whimpering with need. “Everything.”

“ _Blaine_.”

It’s a loaded word. It means he loves him, that Kurt needs Blaine to let him fly apart, and that he agrees. Under that, maybe there’s something more, a hint of forever that Blaine knows they’re not supposed to be sure about but they so _are_.

When Kurt comes Blaine can’t help following after, a slightly embarrassing showing since Kurt didn’t even touch Blaine. But that’s what the shower is for, washing away the mess and they lean into each other until it gets too uncomfortable not to move.

Kurt’s still shaky afterwards ands spends more time than necessary getting ready for bed. He picks up different bottles for his nightly skincare routine, staring at the labels like he doesn’t remember where to begin. By the time he’s sliding back into bed with Blaine, he moves to get up again.

“What?”

“We have to hide everything.” Kurt’s inching towards the bedside table, his fingers outstretched.

Blaine rolls over on top of Kurt, effectively pinning him down. “It’s fine.”

“It’s _Santana_.”

“Hey,” Blaine says. “We have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Blaine can see Kurt rolling his eyes in the semi-darkness. “Your optimism is terrifying sometimes. Fine. You have to keep an eye on her when I’m not here.”

“Deal.”

 

*

 

Kurt actually has somewhere to be the morning of Santana’s arrival. When her flight is delayed, he doesn’t even pretend he’ll wait with Blaine, adding before he leaves, “She isn’t allowed in our bedroom unsupervised.”

“Kurt, it’ll be fine, she’s not going to spy on us,” Blaine says but it’s a feeble claim. Santana’s likely to inform the internet en-masse what kind of lube they prefer if given the opportunity. Really, he doesn’t think that’s such a terrible thing, but he can’t even begin to explain why he thinks that to Kurt.

Instead of a kiss goodbye he gets a curled lip and a shake of Kurt’s head. “Gullibility. It’s a definition you should learn by heart.”

Blaine isn’t a nervous cleaner but the kitchen is nearly sparkling by the time his phone rings with Santana’s personalized ring tone. _When my heart just burst like a glass balloon._

“Let me up,” Santana says.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Now.”

It’s correct so he buzzes her in as he paces the little foyer.

Due to the building’s former glory as a townhouse for a wealthy family, the apartment rooms are all oddly formed. The kitchen still has a servant’s entrance in a corner half-heartedly blocked off with mediocre brickwork and a so-so paint job, one they aren’t allowed to alter as per their lease. It is the bane of Kurt’s interior decorating spirit. The decent sizes of the bedrooms are worth the agony though.

He leaves the door unlocked and Santana doesn’t bother to knock, bursting in and taking off her enormous sunglasses as she adjusts to the inside lights.

California’s been good to her. She has a deeper tan and her hair has been cut to her shoulders and styled in an exaggerated faux-bob. She looks like she’s ready to kick ass but not _angry_.

She will continue to take names _while_ asskicking, but he wouldn’t have Santana any other way.

He accepts the air kiss-kiss as she digs her fingers in his biceps and almost pulls him into a hug. Instead she pushes him back for further inspection, her hand capturing his chin as she turns his head this way and that. He’s had worse inspections from his aunties so he’s not shocked by it, not even when she pats his chest.

“You must be fucking a lot to burn the calories.” Blaine blushes and she mock-gasps. “Oh you were so doing it before I got here. Where’s Hummel? I wanna see if I can get him to blush as red as that time I caught you jerking him off at Rachel’s disaster of a graduation party.”

“He’s not here. Don’t mention that, please. It was a dark time, Santana.”

“You seemed to be having a lot of fun then. Hope you’re still having a lot.” Blaine tries not to sweat out her lengthy pause and mostly succeeds. “Of fun.”

“Can we talk about anything else? Like, how was your flight?”

“In the air,” she says, handing him her suitcase. “You better help me unpack and give me all the deets on your sexcapades. I needs to know that my boy is satisfied.”

“So you can share it with your readers?”

“I could pretend I care about you if that makes you feel better but don’t be a bitch. Or worse, a fake bitch. You totally get off on bragging, you freak.”

“Let me show you to your room,” Blaine says, carrying the luggage into Rachel’s bedroom.

Santana takes a good few minutes to inspect the room (Blaine really hopes that if Rachel has anything incriminating that she wisely took it with her) and comments on Rachel’s posters with her usual color commentary. She nods in appreciation at the photo collage over Rachel’s desk. There’s one photo of Santana and Blaine together taken during their senior Regionals. It captures them in an unguarded moment. Her leg is thrown over his shoulder while he helps her stretch. It looks like they’re wrapped up in a tango and Santana’s smile is open and easy.

He catches Santana making a motion to touch the picture but she stops at the last moment, tapping on a photo of Blaine and Rachel making ridiculous faces at the camera. “Shit, Blaine. Don’t do this with your face ever again.”

Blaine takes the hit in stride, because he sees the opening and one thing he knows about being friends with Santana, he’s got to let her get some potshots in before they dive into the real things that are on her mind.

There’s an art to getting Santana to really talk and it sadly involves revealing things that he probably shouldn’t share.

But if he gets Santana laughing about his fear that Kurt will one day wise up and find someone taller (he has in fact had nightmares about it, only to wake up and find Kurt nowhere near him, not realizing that Kurt’s up in the living room writing some new musical that won’t leave his mind) then it’s worth it when he gets to see her being real and not _keeping it real_.

“I need to stay away from B-named girls. You know, after Britt—” She cuts herself off, scowling. She’s got her legs crossed as she leans back on Rachel’s deskchair, foot making a circle in the air. She doesn’t want to talk about it, but she presses on. “Brianna, Beatrice, Bella, not even Isabella, her mom named her Bella, which like, is so trashy. She had this whole complex about _Twilight_ and ‘cause she looked a little like Kristen Stewart she kept smiling. All the time.”

Santana mimics the fake plastered smile, a terrifying rictus, and Blaine shudders. “Poor girl.”

“Then Beverley. Hot, screamer, and up for anything. _But_. She kept asking me where I was and if I was screwing around. So fucking clingy and dramatic.”

“Well,” Blaine says, trying to be as delicate as possible. “You weren’t being _entirely_ faithful.”

“I’m up front, okay? No monogamy, no bullshit. But every girl I do anything long-term with decides I’ve got to be fixed or something.” She sighs, disgusted. “I don’t need that.”

Blaine kind of thinks she does but it’s not his place to fix her on his own. He’ll wait her out. Brittany’s name is verboten in their conversations unless it’s very late at night and Santana is very drunk and maudlin. After Brittany got left back and Mr. Schuester did nothing to help her despite most of New Directions trying to find another way, summer school at the very least, Santana had sort of an epic meltdown in front of Mr. Schue. Only Blaine had witnessed it.

There were harsh accusations thrown around, notably that Mr. Schue didn’t really care about any of them, how he’d have one of the most talented dancers for his baby glee club and that’s what he wanted, to keep his stupid dream going. Blaine doesn’t think that’s true but the way Mr. Schuester didn’t say anything in his own defense had been pretty damning as far as Santana was concerned.

 _Everyone’s leaving her behind_ Santana had told him the night before graduation, voice creaky over the phone. _Even me_.

“Take me to your favorite sketchy bar,” Santana declares as she stands up, pulling off her top. Blaine really hopes she’s planning on changing into something else because he caught a glimpse of a bra that was more theoretical than an actual support system.

“They really check I.D.s around the city,” Blaine says, admiring the ceiling.

“Well it’s a good thing I’m totally twenty-one.” He listens for the distinct sound of clothing over skin (Blaine’s least favorite noise when applied to Kurt as he hears it on regular basis) before he chances a glimpse. Santana grabs something out of her purse and flicks it at Blaine, hitting him square in the chest. He stares at the driver’s license of one Blaine A. Cooper. “Look at that. So are you.”

“There’s no way I can say no, is there?”

“Nope!” And she jumps in his lap, kneeling between his legs, her knee dangerously close by Blaine’s favorite personal anatomy. “You’re too much of a gentleman to turn me down.”

He’s not scared. Gulping for air is a perfectly natural response when a deep breath is needed. As long as they don’t get arrested, this will not be a harrowing experience. When he can make himself believe that a hundred percent, then there will be no reason to be worried.

 

*

 

Blaine shouldn’t drink with Santana because his filter disappears. Like right about now, actually, as he confesses how much he loves being fucked.

“We don’t do it all the time and sometimes Kurt teases me, so I have beg for it and we still might not get there. But it’s _amazing_ when it happens, you know? It’s great when I get to fuck _him_ but when he’s inside me, it’s like, it’s everything, no other way he can show me how much he loves me. I couldn’t trust him more, no matter what we try. Oh god, we did this thing where Kurt held both my legs like, like a _pretzel_ or something, I don’t even know if it’s called that but there I was, and it’s like being at someone’s mercy, you know? It was _crazy_ intense. Haven’t you ever felt so loved by being fucked?”

She doesn’t answer the question, instead shouting to the bartender that they need more drinks.

“Didn’t I give you a book on gay sex? Was there a chapter on anal being _magical_ that I skipped?” Santana asks and there’s an amused smile playing at her lips before she kills it by taking a shot of tequila.

“I know there are definitions and that if I like being fucked it means that I’m supposed to be a bottom but it’s not like that. It’s different when it’s happening. It’s not technical, top, bottom, what it is, it’s _us_. It’s lovemaking. Kurt hates it when I call it that.” He pauses to blink since he’s not sure he can blink and talk at the same time. Then he leans in to whisper, “We’re working on Kurt’s gag reflex.”

Santana licks the remainder of lime clinging to her lips. “A dildo would help.”

“We’re not getting _sex toys_ ,” Blaine scoffs, accepting the arrival of a new shot by slamming it down, wincing as he swallows. “Why use something fake when you can have actual dick?”

She considers that. “Let’s see. Hot pussy with the side benefit of fun toys or dick? Dick that most guys don’t know fuck all how to use. Real difficult choice for me.”

“You can have all the pussy in the world,” Blaine tells her sincerely, clasping her hands tight because he _adores_ Santana and wants the very best for her. “So long as I can have Kurt’s dick.”

“That’s a fair deal.”

He smiles hard because he can’t even feel his face right now. “You’re the best.”

Santana stares at him a long time, refusing another pour of tequila from the bartender. “Okay, it’s time to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a drink away from trying to slobber all over me. You are perhaps the only cockslut in the world to go girl-crazy when wasted as fuck.”

“It’s offensive to call me a cockslut.” Blaine takes a long break between words because he doesn’t know why he’s supposed to be offended but he’s sure he has a good reason. Now he’s thinking about Kurt and specifically, his dick. He loves the mental picture almost as much as the real thing.

Blaine leans towards Santana again, possibly wobbling as balance is kind of tricky. He puts his hands on her shoulders and she stills, waiting for the inevitable attack. “I’m just really, _really_ affectionate.”

“Focus your affection on Kurt,” she says, trying to pry away from the heavy hug Blaine’s trapped her in, a hold he’s never going to break because Santana is the best. He even kisses her cheek. Or her ear. It’s somewhere face-related. He’s going to stay here forever. Until she grinds her elbow in his side, forcing him to slide down away from her face. “Look, no tits, no clit, no service, okay?”

“Sorry,” Blaine mumbles, slumping back against her. Breasts are nice pillows. He might have said that out loud but he kind of doesn’t care.

She sighs. “You better not puke before we get back to your apartment.”

 

*

 

Blaine collides into Kurt once he’s past the door. “I love you,” he breathes into Kurt’s skin.

Kurt looks over Blaine’s head, his arms tight around Blaine’s waist. “What did you do? Did you break him? I can’t go to the store and get him replaced, you know.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Santana sounds pretty innocent to his ears so Blaine lifts his head up, smiling at Kurt. He admires the turn of Kurt’s nose from this angle. It’s like a very tiny ski jump without any snow. He slowly reaches to poke the tip but Kurt swats his hand away.

“A likely story,” Kurt says.

“Do you want some pretzels, Kurt? Blaine told me you like them.”

“What? No, Santana.” He’s forcing Blaine to move, which is stupid. Blaine doesn’t have much of a choice when Kurt slings Blaine’s arm around Kurt’s shoulders, holding him tight around the waist, hand splayed across his stomach. His boyfriend is so _strong_. “I’m going to go throw Blaine in the bathtub now.”

“See?” Blaine says to Santana as Kurt helps him lumber towards the bathroom. “He’s the only dick in the world for me.”

“Oh dear god.” Kurt sounds like he’s laughing a little. “You are going to be in a world of regret tomorrow.”

“No I’m not,” he says but his voice is muffled against Kurt’s mouth as he dives in for a desperate kiss.

They bump into the bathroom door, then the wall. He distantly hears Kurt shutting the door but it all seems so far away.

“Whoa, easy there.” Kurt’s pulling back, turning the shower on, as he says, “You’re really drunk, Blaine.”

Blaine might start tearing up, because Kurt doesn’t _want_ him. “You don’t love me, do you? You could get any guy and I’m suffocating you.”

Suffocating is a surprisingly hard word to say, so he repeats it a few times to make sure he’s got the hang of it.

Kurt looks up at the bathroom ceiling, closes his eyes and seems to count to infinity before he speaks again. “You are never allowed to go drinking with Santana on your own.”

“But I had to,” Blaine tries to protest, which is pointless when Kurt starts taking off his clothes. He smiles then, and can almost feel his face. “Yes. Let’s have sex now. Can we do it against the sink? The mirror…I wanna watch you.”

“Oh no,” Kurt says, and he’s smiling too but it’s a little forced, as he ducks every awesome move Blaine tries to make. Blaine’s sure there’s this spot on Kurt that can get Kurt to say yes if he can only remember _where_. “Shower, bed, in that order. Maybe if you’re very good—”

Kurt might still be talking but Blaine passes out right about then.

 

*

 

“Rise and shine, camper.”

Kurt swats at Blaine’s arm, yanking the pillow away from his face. The sunlight is unreasonably harsh and Kurt left the curtains open wide because he is a terrible person.

“Let me die.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You are so mean to me.”

“That’s my job,” a Santana-sounding voice says and it is Santana, from the way she leaps onto the bed, not giving a shit that she’s landed on Blaine’s legs and could’ve damn well broken his kneecap. Maybe that’s what she meant to do. The pain would be a distraction from the pounding at the back of his skull at least.

He hisses in pain when she slaps his thigh but she’s not done with her attack. Santana goes for the ticklish spot at the back of his knees, no mercy to be found. Oh god, when did he let her know about that?

“Blaine should be fine in a couple of hours,” Kurt says to Santana like Blaine’s not there. Or five years old. An extremely hung-over five year old. Kurt and Santana are the worst parents ever. “I’d stay but I do actually have work today or I’d ask exactly why Blaine wanted me to assure him that I would always want his di—dynamic personality for the rest of our lives.”

“Aww, he gets all mushy when he’s wasted,” Santana says, making a gagging noise at the back of her throat. “Never believe a drunken proposal.”

“I didn’t propose, did I?” Blaine pushes himself up and regrets it instantly as his body is not one with the world, in fact it is very against the world. He has to will himself not to throw up and he’s not entirely sure he succeeds, the back of his mouth tasting _foul_.

Kurt’s hands are on him before he knows it, pushing him back into the mattress. “No proposals, don’t worry. For the record, now that you’re sober, I’m not breaking up with you. Stop letting Santana get into your head.”

“Hey, not cool, bitch. I’m right here.”

“Sorry, Santana,” Kurt says, not even pretending to sound apologetic.

“I wasn’t trying to break you guys up. That’s so boring. You’d both cry and moan and maybe try to date other people, and it would be _tragic_. Then you’d bitch to me or Rachel.” She makes her point by poking Blaine’s side and ow, she needs to stop doing that. Even a blunt trimmed nail is still a weapon when it belongs to Santana. “God, you two would suck in the un-fun way. Then we’d have to figure out how to get you back together and Jesus, I am not helping you pick romantic songs.”

“That’s what Rachel’s for,” Blaine says, weakly. They’ve already put together a few lists for several occasions.

“No,” Kurt says. “No she is _not_. Please do not ever _woo_ me with a Rachel-approved number. That is, no. There’s a line, Blaine.”

“You’re safe in my hands,” Santana says but really squeezing Blaine’s ass isn’t the best way to prove her point. She ignores Kurt’s protest as she shrugs. “Look, it’s more fun to get the skinny on baby gays getting all kinky. Although, you could up the ante there. You and Blaine are so fucking vanilla.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says coldly. “I’m glad that you’re invested in our sex life because it guarantees I have no interest in having one while you’re here.”

“She doesn’t mean it,” Blaine says in a terrified rush. “Not really.”

Kurt ruffles Blaine’s messy hair. “You’re a terrible liar. I’m kidding. Maybe.”

“Dibs on the sex tape,” Santana says, flopping next to Blaine, a motion that sends him reeling.

Kurt rubs his temples for a long time before he walks out of the bedroom, saying, “Please don’t kill my boyfriend while I’m at work.”

“Please don’t kill me ever,” Blaine adds, because hey, it has to be said outright.

 

*

 

It takes more than a couple of hours but by noon he almost feels like a person.

Santana spends the time doing her version of coddling, which mostly involves her mocking him for his inability to hold his liquor. At some point, she discovers the lube that he and Kurt keep in their bedside table, and she approves. Blaine oddly finds this comforting. Then she makes a joke about Hummel Tire and Lube that absolutely scandalizes him.

When not belittling him, she works on a blog entry, occasionally pestering him to drink more water.

“Did I really say _pretzel_?” he asks, looking over her shoulder. She’s still in the editing stage but he’s not going to ask her to delete it.

The emotional stuff, all the things Santana pretends she doesn’t understand, and what really counts, that’s never in these posts. Kurt and Blaine’s identities are kept anonymous. A gay couple that a lesbian living in San Francisco knows—that’s not just ordinary, it’s boring. Her writing makes it sound special and Blaine’s glad she’s found an outlet. Although Santana claims it only feeds her need for salacious gossip.

“You said a lot of things,” she tells him, finishing her last edit.

“I regret all of them.” He doesn’t actually.

“Yeah, whatever,” she says as she hits post. She opens up her email briefly and Blaine realizes it’s one she uses for dating considering the subject headers are rather _suggestive_ , so he politely looks away. A few minutes pass by and she says, “For fuck’s sake.”

“What is it?”

She just points at the screen, frowning.

There’s a comment thread at the end of her entry with some graphic porn posted, obviously gay-for-pay straight actors, the smaller guy’s dick soft between the men, more pain than pleasure on his face. Apparently someone is using the images to explain what a pretzel position looks like to another commenter. “Huh. Why do people think I must look ‘ _petite_?’”

The word is unpleasant to his ears and he can’t help frowning.

“Everyone thinks it’s gotta be one hulking dude and like, a _femme_ girly gay.”

“Heteronormativity strikes again,” Blaine says tiredly. He’s always been done with this bullshit and he’s lucky that he rarely has to deal with it but he’s heard Kurt rant enough to know it’s still astonishingly prevalent. That evil question always seems to be lurking in any social situation: _which one of you is the woman?_

“Isn’t it fucking cute,” she says, taking the computer over, fingers curled over the keyboard. “I love banning those fuckers and bitching them out.”

“You’re defending my honor? And my height?”

“What? No, you’re totally a hobbit. I don’t want these idiots straight-splaining all over my blog that all gays are like _whatever_.” She types with a fury, nails hitting the keys hard. “There. Try and come crawling back to me now, fucker.”

“It’s just some idiot with access to the internet.” Blaine likes believing that because he doesn’t want to dwell on the actual unpleasant truth.

“Yeah and maybe I ruined someone’s day and made them _cry_. Tears raining down their face because of an evil dyke hating on them straights. Score one for me.” She exhales loudly, shutting her computer off and tucking it under her arm as she gets off the bed. “I’m hungry. Let’s go out and get some food.”

“You’re not using the internet as a replacement for sex, are you?”

“Blaine, the internet is for sex. Who the fuck are you trying to fool?”

 

*

 

She insists that they go to Central Park and they buy dirty water hot dogs from a cart outside of the park. He buys her a frozen popsicle when they make their way over the bridge.

Santana dutifully makes a scene, deepthroating a few times for emphasis. “Now, I hope I’m not teaching you any new tricks.”

Blaine can actually teach her a thing or two and he finally does, while she laughs and applauds, loud and obnoxious enough to startle gawking tourists.

He takes a picture of her climbing on the Alice in Wonderland sculpture, her arm outstretched to help up a little girl who can’t make it past the smallest toadstool.

“That better not be blackmail,” she says under her breath once she’s back on the ground.

“I’d never let anyone know that there might be a soft spot in your heart for cute kids.”

He’ll set it as his phone background later.

“Gross, you make it sound even worse.” She pushes her sunglasses down so she can narrow her eyes at him. He pretends to be mollified for her benefit. “Come on. Let’s go fuck with some bitchy bicyclists and pretend we’re blocking the bike lane.”

 

*

 

She lets her guard down when she’s dipping her feet into the Bethesda Fountain. “I hate being caught in a pattern, okay? They always have a big heart. Every single girl I meet. Fuck. Whatever.”

“You have a type,” Blaine says, as noncommittal as possible, dripping water over her bare leg. It keeps her eyes from looking too sad.

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, today. You’re not a shrink, and listen, I—I don’t want love.” She says it with conviction but won’t look him in the eye.

“This is going to piss you off, but you know that’s bullshit, right?”

She sucks in a breath. “I don’t—”

“Love is messy and _hard_ , Santana. But it’s worth it. That’s the whole point.”

“Really. You know all the answers because you ran off with the first boy who’d be ass over balls for any guy who liked him back? Fuck you, Blaine.”

She’s dying for this, he realizes. It’ll distract her and make her sure that she’s vindicated, and Blaine cuts her off before she can really tear into him. “Are we going to do this?”

“What?”

“Fight. Each other,” he clarifies. “That’s not why you’re here.”

Santana considers a noisy cluster of kids on the other side of the fountain before she answers, eyes shining. .“No it’s not.”

He waits her out.

She flashes him a too-bright smile. “I’m here to get laid. Scandalize Hummel. Tons of summer fun just from that.”

“And me?”

“Who said I ever gave a damn about you?” She splashes him good, a long swipe across the water’s edge that soaks his shirt.

“Because we’re in this together,” he says and before she snarks back at him, he grabs her and pulls her into the water with him. If they’re going to be soaked, so be it, from their heads to feet.

No anger comes in the form of a well-placed hit, not even a vocal complaint that he’s ruined her clothes. She’s laughing as she stands, futility scrunching her soaked shirt as she shakes off water.

“I am going to destroy you.” But she says it with love, or rather the Santana version of it. “At least I won this wet T-shirt contest. This is why breasts are awesome.”

“Santana,” he says, the idea coming to him fast and loose and he bounds over to her, glad he ditched his shoes and socks before sitting by the fountain. It’s a stroke of foresight that he tucked his phone into one of his shoes since he’s going to have some calls to make. “Would you like to go meet a group of ridiculous people?”

“Oh god,” she says, wringing out her damp hair, “Rachel’s bozo friends?”

“I think they prefer Boho.”

“Same thing.”

Blaine can’t bring himself to disagree.

 

*

 

It’s shockingly easy to gather the troops considering he’s really only been acquainted with them the one time but apparently Karaoke Marathon Night is kind of a thing and usually Rachel is in charge of organizing it.

“Of course Rachel’s the de facto leader,” Kurt says when they’re sitting in a restaurant technically too expensive for them. But they’ve got time to kill and they’re all dressed spectacularly and it feels strangely rebellious to obviously stand out when contrasted with the other diners. Blaine didn’t even gel his hair tonight.

(Karaoke is murder on any attempt at severe styling plus it totally encourages Kurt to touch his hair at will.)

Santana leans forward, a useless gesture as her cleavage is wasted on them. “Who do you think she killed to take over?”

“Can’t answer that,” Kurt says as his hand slips under the table, touching Blaine’s knee, the most innocent of all dirty moves. “I might have helped her out.”

“Murder mystery.” Santana approves, stealing a bite from Kurt’s salad. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Kurt’s now mid-thigh. Blaine tries to plaster the most banal of expressions so that he doesn’t give away how very turned on he is right now. He also isn’t going to look Santana directly in the eye or she’ll know in an instant.

Shrugging, Kurt says, “That’s a lie.”

“Lying’s one of my favorite things I do with my mouth. The other—”

Their classy dinner falls apart after that.

No matter, because soon they’re piling into a cab and while they should be able to fit comfortably, three across the backseat, Blaine winds up halfway on Kurt’s lap and he’s not about to complain.

The karaoke bar is one of those places on the Lower East Side that Blaine believes only exists in the dark of night, as there’s no signs or any obvious noise to mark its location. A few smokers hanging outside, that’s their best approximation for the entrance.

“Well, boys? Are we ready to destroy those who dare compete against us?”

“Um, while we do have flawless voices,” Blaine says, looking to Kurt, unable to not smile because damn, they _are_ awesome, “we should only destroy them a little. To be polite.”

“Fuck. That.” Santana almost grabs Blaine by the shirt collar before Kurt steps in between them. “Total annihilation all the way. If you’re too much of a pussy, me and Hummel will win on our own.”

Expecting his boyfriend to defend him is pretty stupid because Kurt’s got that competitive gleam in his eyes and nothing can stop him when he looks like that. “They’ll never sing karaoke again without looking back on this day and weeping at their failure.”

He shouldn’t say _guys it’s just karaoke_ , he really shouldn’t and he bites his tongue long enough that by the time they find the bizarre collective, he’s now concerned he might have permanently damaged his tongue. His fear is assuaged when he accepts a “no Rum and Coke” and his mouth feels fine, the bubbles tickling his nose.

Kurt and Santana each claim a songbook, flipping through pages to get the codes for the karaoke machine. “Oh my god, they have so many Broadway classics.”

Santana snorts. “Gonna make the crowd fall asleep?”

Kurt shoots back with, “Another tired Winehouse impersonation?”

“You bitch,” Santana says but she’s laughing. “Oh, jackpot for _me_. Watch and learn, boys.”

Blaine would watch but Kurt pulls him into a back corner, a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” Blaine says because he’s being an idiot right now and questioning kisses from Kurt.

“To make up for last night. You were really drunk and upset.”

“And horny,” Blaine says because his brain is finally catching up and if one of the queer-leaning girls in the group catches Santana’s eye and takes her to _someone else’s apartment_ , there’s a high likelihood he might get laid tonight.

“That too,” Kurt says and suddenly Santana’s belting from the top of the bar, clearing calling out for them to pay attention.

“ _Hey! I wanna tell you a secret. You can keep your double standard love and keep it. I can’t help the devil likes to make my heart a double bed and I can’t help he sometimes likes to come and rest his little head_.”

Blaine wants to sing along but he’s not about to ruin her solo. She stalks down the bar, bending down to grab a drink offered by a very tattooed woman with dark hair set in finger waves. Her eyes stay on Santana.

It’s magical, the joy exploding out of her as she encourages everyone to take the chorus with her, bouncing up and well, it’s a good thing Santana’s wearing panties.

“We’ll need to duet to beat her,” Kurt says as the Santana reaches the end, bowing to riotous cheers and hollers.

“Or,” Blaine says, pretending to think about it, nose bumping against Kurt’s cheek as he nuzzles him, “we could _do it_. You, me, our bed? Give or take a couple of hours?”

Kurt smacks Blaine lightly on the bicep. “Last pun warning of the night.”

“It’s my first warning.”

“First and last.”

He’d push Kurt a little more, actually he already is, his hand on Kurt’s hip. He’s working on the border of shirt and tight jeans as Santana stomps over to them, scowling. “You just let Blondie Dreadlocks over there follow me. Way to ruin the momentum. Jesus, stop flirting at least, it’s pathetic. Shouldn’t you be over all the foreplay after Kurt jerked you off at dinner?”

“He didn’t—”

“Blaine,” Kurt interrupts loudly, face slightly red. “I’m going to sing with Santana now.”

“What?” It’s said simultaneously, Santana and Blaine openly staring at Kurt in confusion.

“I’m sorry, Blaine, but Santana’s voice is more suited to this song.”

It’s hard not to reel back in shock since it feels a lot like he just got slapped in the face. “But. Our duet.”

“Will come later tonight.”

Blaine totally hears that as _we’ll come later tonight_ and it’s obvious Santana heard that too.

“Santana,” Kurt says, offering his hand. “If you dare.”

“Oh, you think you could ever beat me?”

Kurt’s got that dangerous smile happening. If Blaine were a lesser man, he’d be sporting a humiliating erection. For now, he’s only halfway there. Living on a prayer, and man, screw Dreadlocks for singing Bon Jovi, it always gets stuck in his head.

Then Kurt and Santana start singing “ _Government Hooker_.”

Thoughts of Bon Jovi are effectively killed off but his dick is now closing in on _causing a scene_ levels of readiness.

He has to think of really gross things when Kurt takes the low parts of the song, because _damn_ Kurt and his stupid, sexy range. The hypnotizing effect is killed when Santana stomps on Kurt’s instep in order to rattle him. Blaine forces himself to regroup and watching Dreadlocks pawing at a girl’s décolletage is an effective boner killer.

He’s gay and even he knows that it’s poor form. See? His friendship with Santana is font of valuable information. Also, now he isn’t _dying_ which is nice because the song’s over and he can applaud honestly without thinking about pulling Kurt off somewhere and blowing him.

Though. That isn’t the _worst_ of ideas, it isn’t how karaoke battles are won.

Kurt actually bounds towards him, hands fisted in Blaine’s hair before he’s even ready for the kiss, teeth clacking awkwardly before he settles into it.

“Did you find a song for us!”

“Want to join a boy band? For one night only.”

Kurt laughs. “I believe I already have. What did you pick?”

“A classic,” Blaine says. “’N Sync’s _Bye Bye Bye_.”

There’s a pause that Blaine doesn’t notice as they walk towards the little stage set up in the bar’s corner. There are microphone stands to use and it’s just as well. Santana’s already stolen his thunder by jumping on the bar.

Before the song starts up, Kurt says, covering the mike, “I’m only singing this with you because I love you. Blaine, you really need to stop picking breakup songs for us.”

Blaine can’t help but be surprised. It’s such a _happy_ song. “But I really like the dance moves.”

“I’d rather sing _Sexy Back_ ,” Kurt grumbles, flashing a bright show smile to the crowd.

“But you hate that song.”

Kurt stares at him. “Exactly.”

“I’ll be the JC Chasez to your Justin,” Blaine offers.

“Yeah you will.”

He doesn’t know why Kurt didn’t want to sing this, this song is _made_ for them. Sure, he might knock into Kurt once or twice in his enthusiasm as he bops around the stage but that’s a sign of the energy between them and he’s not the only one who knows every dance move by heart. He’ll make it to Kurt, he decides. They’ll totally sing a Beyoncé song later.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he whispers, accepting the applause as they head off the little stage.

Kurt gives a tight British royalty-style hand wave. “Never letting you pick our duet song ever again.”

Blaine smirks because he can tell Kurt’s blushing a little, thinking about their first kiss.

The opening of _Don’t Stop Believing_ start up and Kurt groans. The entire bar’s already shouting out the lyrics, drowning out the singer, Whatley. Or maybe it’s Wheatley, Blaine’s still not sure.

“Okay. We’re leaving.”

“But what about Santana?”

“Escaped in the back with one of her lady admirers when we started singing ‘N Sync.” Kurt says _‘N Sync_ like its’s a dirty word. Blaine makes a note to never make Kurt sing a boy band song unless it’s for a really awesome reason. Like doing _Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)_ for a Halloween costume party.

“Does this mean we’re accepting a loss?”

“What are you talking about? We’re winners.” Kurt licks his lips as he leans forward, breath hot against Blaine’s ear. “In fact, I was thinking about victory sex.”

“Oh my god, _yes_ ,” Blaine says, gripping the back of Kurt’s head to keep him there. “Let’s go.”

 

*

 

“How much time do you think we have?”

What a silly question, that implies that they need to like, hurry or something and Blaine is so not interested in that, not when his mouth is on Kurt’s dick. He’s going to time forever, thank you, his lips stretching as he makes his way down, thankful that he is the luckiest guy on the Upper West Side because lacking a gag reflex is the best thing ever.

Fuck, he loves blowing Kurt.

It’s wonderful when they can do it like this on the bed, utterly naked. Kurt’s legs are spread wide and bent at the knee, the perfect excuse for Blaine to run his hands across the expanse of pale skin. He still can’t get over the feel of leg hair going from sparse down to wiry and strong so maybe he drags his fingers slower and slower while moaning around Kurt.

He has only so many hands and while he’s gotten good at sucking Kurt off without needing to hold his dick, Blaine is clearly depriving necessary attention to his balls. This is a tricky matter best resolved by tasking one hand with the important mission of working Kurt up into a frenzy if he’s any good. Since he currently has the most awesome version of a standing ovation in his mouth, he likes to think he’s doing pretty okay.

He does have to pull off for a moment, because likening an erection to a _standing ovation_ is kind of funny. Yeah, he is never saying that out loud around Kurt ever. Besides, he so very appreciates how Kurt gets hard for him so easily and he’s not going to ruin it by traumatizing Kurt.

The pause gives him an excuse to tease at the head with a swirl of his tongue before Kurt can’t help but shove deeper into Blaine’s mouth, hitting the back of Blaine’s throat. He should be ready for it but it’s a shock to have Kurt suddenly _there_ so he has to readjust and forces himself to relax, breathing through his nose.

“Dammit, Blaine.”

It’s a good dammit, a thank you for going down on me dammit, and Blaine flattens his tongue as he forces Kurt deeper and then stills. Now it’s a matter of seeing how long he can sustain this without Kurt yanking his hair and demanding him to move.

What he doesn’t expect is Kurt pulling him off completely.

“Hey,” he says, roughly, “I was teasing, c’mon, Kurt.”

He tries to move back down but Kurt’s holding him still. They stare at each other for a long time.

“You’re going to make me come.”

“Right,” Blaine says, cautiously. “And we don’t have much time. Possibly. So let me get you there.”

Kurt shakes his head. “Let—” He cuts himself off, frustrated.

“Show me,” Blaine begs, hands on Kurt’s shoulders, stroking mindless patterns. “Kurt. It’s okay.”

Kurt forces Blaine to lay down over him, their cocks brushing together as Blaine settles his hips.

“Oh? Like this?”

“No,” Kurt says and he’s shutting his eyes. He wraps a leg around Blaine calf dragging against the small of his back.

“Um. I need to get a condom. If—if we’re doing that.” Lube too, but that goes without saying. He also kind of doesn’t want to move, because Kurt can hold him here with just his leg and he wouldn’t be able to escape through sheer force. Only distracting Kurt can set him free and he tries to not shiver.

A kiss will do as a distraction but Kurt moves his face away before it deepens. “I can reach it,” he says. “Longer arms and all. Give me a moment.”

They lie like that for a whole minute before Blaine gets a little antsy and Kurt smiles fondly as he gets the condom, brushing the edge of the wrapper against Blaine’s cheek.

“So. You want me to fuck you,” Blaine says.

“Don’t kill the mood.”

“I’m not,” Blaine protests, watching in rapt fascination as Kurt opens the condom wrapper.

Oh, Kurt’s going to do all the work. That’s so okay with him. He shifts back as Kurt leans forward, motioning at Blaine to keep his hands away as Kurt rolls the condom on. It’s hard not to grin hugely so he doesn’t resist it.

“I love this.”

“Preparing for sex?” Kurt’s slathering lube on his fingers and yes, Blaine will perhaps help out, just a little, pushing Kurt’s leg up so he can watch. Kurt’s dick is still shiny with spit and seeing Kurt push a finger inside of himself, it’s difficult not to openly whimper.

“You taking charge.”

He can’t jerk off at the sight of this, no matter how much he might want to, he’s got a condom on and he needs to hold out. Blaine dives down to Kurt’s thigh, sucking an open-mouthed kiss, because the noises Kurt’s making is almost too much.

“God,” Kurt says, drawing in a deep breath. “You make me sound so bossy.”

Blaine moves up Kurt’s body and kisses him hard because it’s true and he’s not that stupid to actually say it. He’d stay there a while but Kurt’s still fingering himself open and he’s missing out. Shifting away, he can hear Kurt faintly groan at the loss of contact.

“Sorry,” he says even though he’s not. “I feel like I’m missing out on the show.”

“It’s not a show.” Kurt’s leaking a little precome, dick jutting hard over his stomach.

“It’s pretty sexy.”

Blaine can’t help tasting the bead of moisture at the tip, dipping down to cover Kurt’s flat stomach in slow, gliding kisses. He settles back on his knees, waiting. It’s no game, this give and take; it’s far more precious than that.

“Oh my god,” Kurt says as he twists a third finger in, neck stretching as he tosses his head back. “You can’t—Blaine, please.”

Blaine runs his thumb over the wide stretch of Kurt’s bottom lip, effectively quieting him.

“What can I do?”

“You can,” Kurt cuts himself off, slipping Blaine’s thumb in his mouth, flicking his tongue. He turns his head away. “Don’t make me wait anymore.”

“Oh,” he says, because that’s good advice and he’s more than happy to take it. He reaches blindly for the lube. Just as he’s about to pour it over himself, which’ll be messy and not the smoothest of moves, Kurt steals it away.

He’s done with preparing himself and Blaine’s familiar with this aspect of Kurt’s personality, how desperate he in the face of delays. It’s more than welcome to see Kurt consumed with a goal but Kurt needs the control and Blaine’s happy to oblige.

Blaine does very best not to come while Kurt’s spreading the lube over his dick, checking the condom one last time, and Blaine huffs a little.

“It’s fine,” he says.

“Can’t be too careful,” Kurt says, gripping the base for much longer than necessary. He is so messing with Blaine.

“This’ll be over a lot sooner than either of us want if you keep doing that.”

“Really,” Kurt says as he idly runs a hand down Blaine’s thigh. Blaine’s body hair is not only darker than Kurt’s, it’s a lot coarser too. He’d once joked about looking into waxing and Kurt had expressed his negative opinion of that by kissing every inch of his body, whispering words against his skin that still makes Blaine’s heart race a little.

That was an incredible night. He ought to do something wild and try to make tonight almost half as good.

Blaine grabs Kurt’s wrists because he’s too damn talented and yeah, he does want to at least pretend he’s not moments away from coming. He pins Kurt’s hands near Kurt’s head, stilling him. “Patience.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow. “Do you want me to be quiet, too?”

“You know I love your voice.”

“You love my everything,” he teases.

“That too.”

One _everything_ he’s fond of is Kurt’s ass and he’d like to be intimately familiar with it right now. He frees Kurt’s hands. Shockingly Kurt keeps his hands still and cants his hips forward when Blaine hesitates. He’s trailing his fingers at the curve where Kurt’s thigh meets his ass, a little unsure at what they’re playing at.

“Blaine, I want it.”

“Oh, okay,” Blaine says, because it’s not like he needs to ask permission, although, asking is the polite thing to do. He pushes Kurt’s thighs up and Kurt reflexively angles his hips before he shakes his head, blowing an irritated puff of breath. “What’s wrong?”

“Not enough,” Kurt searches for a word and doesn’t find it. “Okay, I’m going to—move.”

Before Blaine can say that is moving is okay, or they can try another position (they have so many favorites), Kurt’s grabbing at his bent knee, pushing his leg out. He taps Blaine’s arm so Blaine adjusts properly, settles his leg over Blaine’s shoulder.

“ _Kurt_.”

“Much better.”

Positioned like this, it’s not much to rub against Kurt’s ass. He grips the base of his dick as he pushes in, his gaze flickering from Kurt’s face to where they’re connected. It’s too much, seeing that, and he cries out when he feels Kurt flex against him.

Once he’s deep, he realizes that he’s not going to last very long and secondly, he really hopes sucking off Kurt has gotten him close because he’s going to need to go hard and fast to get Kurt off because taking it slow is not an option.

“You can take it, right,” he asks a little desperately, pushing at Kurt’s leg to confirm he’s not hurting him.

Problem is that Kurt writhes against him in wonderful ways when he does that and yeah, if he has to do it, he’ll give the best head _ever_ to make up for how he really needs to come like, _now_.

“I think,” Kurt pants, closing his eyes, “I am.”

“Please look at me.”

“Okay.” It’s a shaky promise, no real foundation to it, and Kurt doesn’t focus his gaze directly, looking off to the side before he collects himself.

This is a moment, a moment where they’ll stare at each other forever and Blaine loves this but fuck it, there’s enough not _time_.

Blaine starts thumbing at the head of Kurt’s cock, turning his face against Kurt’s leg, licking him. It’s really not all that appealing, he’s sure, but he has to keep his mouth occupied as he tries not to fuck into Kurt or it’ll be all over. Fortunately Kurt’s not about to complain while Blaine is jerking Kurt off and _inside_ him.

It’s a good plan and lasts almost several whole minutes before he rebalances his weight on his knees and his pushes his forearm against the mattress, helplessly saying, “I can’t wait anymore.”

Whatever Kurt’s about to say gets turned into a deep moan as Blaine thrusts back. He’s rocking fast and shamelessly working Kurt’s dick with everything he’s memorized as the tricks to Kurt’s undoing.

Maybe Blaine’s making these high little noises in the back of his throat because he really wants Kurt to kiss him but there’s Kurt’s leg keeping him from getting a decent angle and Kurt’s trying to keep his eyes open, fuck, Kurt is holding back. His palms are pressed flat against the bed and his fingers are almost white— _oh_.

“You can do, whatever,” Blaine says and Kurt makes a questioning noise so Blaine tries to remember that nouns are important. “Hands. Your hands. Don’t. God, Kurt.”

It’s terrible, the way he has to bend over but it’s Kurt to the rescue as his flexibility continues to impress and they somehow meet in the middle. His hands grip the back of Blaine’s neck and he’s panting in Blaine’s mouth, breaking away every now and then to tell Blaine he better not stop, then shoving his tongue in Blaine’s mouth and taking away that little bit of resistance Blaine’s been counting on to hold off for a while.

He can’t help it anymore, shuddering as he comes, a few stilted jerks as he tries to get Kurt to at least come after him. Kurt’s leg has already slid off his shoulder and his grip on Blaine is getting a little slack when he bites down on Kurt’s bottom lip, a poor attempt at an apology. Then he feels Kurt twitch, that familiar pulse. He's so, so close, and _yes_ , warm and wet shooting over his hand, between them.

Somehow he manages to pull out before collapsing on Kurt, breathing heavy. They’re sweaty and it’s really gross and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Oh my god.” Blaine tries to bring his head up to look at Kurt but he’s too tired for that. “Did you magically get like, super-powered stamina and not tell me?”

“What? No of course not,” and Kurt’s voice is a little strained and rough. Dammit, he totally blacked out on Kurt _shouting_ when he came. “I jerked off before we went out.”

“While I was here?”

“No.” Kurt wipes at Blaine’s eyebrow, pushing away drops of sweat. “Before that.”

Blaine puts together the pieces of today. It shouldn’t seem too hazy but he did just come moments ago. “When I was out with Santana?”

“We’re too naked to talk about Santana.” Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine, which is nice, because eventually one of them will have to move and if he’s trapped then Kurt will be the responsible party. “Yes, though. While you were out. I was bored.”

Blaine chokes back a laugh. “Do you jerk off a lot when you’re bored?”

“That is an amazingly stupid question.”

Kurt’s ruffling Blaine’s hair now, combing through the curls. It’s better when he drags his fingers down Blaine’s spine, the half-hearted start to a massage.

“That’s nice.”

“My sarcasm?”

“Well, no. You though, yeah. You’re pretty nice.”

Kurt’s breath hitches, with what, Blaine doesn’t know. He’s quiet for a long while before he finally says in a pretend bratty tone, “Am not.”

They hold it for exactly half a minute before they burst into laughter.

“Afterglow officially _ruined_ ,” Blaine says, rolling off of Kurt.

Kurt’s arms are still wrapped tight around him so Kurt presses up against Blaine, absentmindedly kissing Blaine’s shoulder. “I’m getting sticky.”

“We’re _filthy_ ,” Blaine agrees. Kurt smacks his shoulder when he sits up. “Hey, you just kissed me there.”

“Yes, it means you’re impervious so it didn’t hurt,” Kurt says.

“I have a _magical_ boyfriend, huh? Can you grant me wishes, too?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Kurt tosses a couple of tissues at him, and right, he has to get rid of the condom. He likes that the wastebasket is a decent throw away but most certainly does not like that it hits the rim and then bounces off. He’s better than that.

Kurt’s already standing, boxers in hand, a witness to Blaine’s failure. He shakes his head and quickly picks it up, tossing the condom and crumpled up tissues in the trash. He puts on a robe before opening the bedroom door, searching for a Santana that isn’t there.

“Can I join you?”

Blaine has no actual interest in moving but he likes to ask.

“Only if you can move on your own.”

“You drive a hard bargain, sir.” Blaine yawns and half-heartedly tugs the clean bed sheet folded at the foot of the bed over him. “Sleep it is.”

“Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”

Blaine fulfills that request, Kurt warm against his back before he drifts off.

 

*

 

He wakes up earlier than expected which means Kurt’s still in the process of getting ready, currently inspecting between his eyebrows, tweezers inches away from his face. Talking is for the caffeinated so he’s halfway to the door before Kurt hisses, “Boxers, Blaine.”

So he dresses in order to go into the bathroom to get naked all over again, standing under the shower spray until his thoughts progress to half-formed concepts. He gets dressed in his lightest summer clothes, leaving the top buttons of his shirt open.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Kurt says when he walks into their bedroom, kissing his cheek. He’s wearing what Blaine knows is only his morning apartment attire, which means he’s going to spend the next fifteen or so minutes putting together his actual daywear outfit. “Santana’s in a good mood.”

“I got laid,” Santana informs him when he joins her in the kitchen. She slices a mango open, tossing the pit in the trash.

Blaine dutifully raises his palm up for a high five because he isn’t going to speak until he’s had at least half a cup of coffee spreading warmth and magic in his veins.

They’re sitting down at the table, Blaine on his second cup and Santana still on her first, when he finally speaks. “Was it nice?”

She glares at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Blaine, are you seriously asking about lesbian sex?” Kurt asks, joining the table and the conversation. “Honestly.”

“You’re fucking a lesbian,” Santana informs Kurt, popping a piece of mango in her mouth and making exaggerated moaning noises. “Sorry, but you so are. He’s obsessed with _feelings_.”

“Do lesbians often deliver impassioned speeches about male anatomy?” Kurt wonders out loud, pointedly not looking Blaine or Santana in the eye.

“You told him?” Blaine asks Santana.

“No, I read it,” Kurt says, flicking a napkin at Blaine.

“Hey, you read my blog,” Santana says, smiling.

“Only on special occasions. Like the day after you get Blaine incredibly drunk.” Kurt’s cheeks are a little pink. “I had time to kill during my lunch break.”

“A likely story. I’m so proud,” she says, in a fake fluttery voice, “the baby gays are growing up. Maybe we can hit up a sex shop while I’m here. Ever think about cock rings?”

Blaine is too sober for this conversation.

“And I’m never eating again,” Kurt sighs, pushing away the bowl of sliced fruit.

There’s a brief wonderful moment of silence before Santana throttles it. Kurt and Blaine sit in horror for several minutes as she lays out details that neither of them ever wanted to know and they are not better men for it.

“And that’s why we’re going to see her roller derby game this weekend,” Santana finishes, her gestures mellowing out at the end.

Kurt’s wide-eyed and Blaine, well, Blaine is gripping his now cold coffee wondering why he didn’t spike it this morning.

“Any questions?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Kurt mutters.

“Oh, keep the claws retracted,” Santana says. “You can audition for the Jeerleaders, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says, because he’s fairly sure he heard _jeerleader_ , “but what?”

“Cheerleaders for roller derby. Vixen told me all about it last night, they need a couple of new ones, injuries. Some bitches shouldn’t somersault.”

Santana shoots a look at Kurt, some secret cheerleading code that hasn’t been forgotten as Kurt smiles in response.

“Why exactly do you think I’d be interested in that?”

Santana fakes a gasp. “I guess I’m the only one at this table that’s kept up their fitness regime.”

Kurt pushes an errant lock of hair off his forehead. “I beg to differ.”

“Wanna _bet_?”

“Or maybe we could go to the beach this weekend,” Blaine says, reaching wildly for anything.

“Ooh, Fire Island is like the gay Mecca around here, isn’t it?” Santana frowns. “Or is that too many dicks on the disco floor?”

Kurt’s hand is over Blaine’s before he speaks. “No, honey. Let her figure out that one on her own.”

Santana ignores Kurt’s comment as she's plotting their queer adventures while she’s in the city. Kurt clears away the table, occasionally shooting down a more outlandish idea.

“I’m not spending Fourth of July in an abandoned warehouse. I don’t care how epic an all-night rave might be.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the fireworks over the water,” Blaine confesses.

Kurt grins. “We could have a picnic.”

“Without the hickey on Blaine’s neck, I wouldn’t believe either of you fucked.” Santana stands up, hands on her hips. “Yeah, I know you two screwed each other's brains out last night. I really hope you didn’t cry-max, although I bet you’re both cuddlers. I’m gonna go ask my loyal readers where all the hottest parties are in the city. Or where I can find some _fun_ gay boys.”

“She’s a demon.”

“Kurt, that’s mean.” Blaine has a good thing going with nervously tapping his fingers on his thigh but he’s done with it the moment Kurt sits in his lap.

He bends down to Blaine’s ear and says, “I notice you didn’t disagree.”

“Plead the fifth.” He kisses Kurt. “You taste good.”

“Well you—Santana.”

“I’m not Santana.”

“Is filming us.”

Blaine looks over his shoulder and sure enough she’s got her phone out, hands steady.

“Oh come the fuck on. Rachel told me you two get handsy all the time and I gots to record some action while she’s away, made a deal and shit.”

Kurt gets off of Blaine’s lap and Blaine isn’t sure he’ll ever forgive Santana for that. “Unless she actually sold her soul to you, no, you don’t _have_ to film us.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“Oh my god,” Kurt mutters and he yanks Blaine’s hair, exposing his throat and licks an angry path up to his jawline. “There’s your porn. Hope it’s everything you ever wanted.”

“Nah, pretty much what I expected. Boring and super vanilla. Oh well.” She shrugs, turning on the TV and settling on the sofa. “What channel is Ellen on?”

Kurt blinks and before he can ask, Blaine answers, “Apparently an obligation in the lesbian community?”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Kurt says, confused.

“Honey,” Blaine says, because he never really calls Kurt it and when he does, Kurt’s breath catches a little. He clicks his tongue a little, as he leads Kurt to the sofa so they can watch with her. “Don’t question it.”


End file.
